Years ago, I was working on a show in Toronto, when my boss came in one morning, and announced that he had just purchased a new Mercedes.
On some primal level, I felt a general uneasiness about buying a car from a country that had been terminally unhelpful to my people, and, being me, I neglected to keep my feelings to myself.
My employer, a co-religionist, immediately tore into me.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, indignation coating every word. “Do you know how many Jews the Mercedes company has hired – in sales, in accounting, in strategic planning, in office management, in design?”
I looked down at my shoes, humiliated and justifiably chastened.
“How many?” I asked sheepishly.
“Not one!” he replied.
Following it up with a “Gotcha!” glimmer.
It was a wonderful joke. And a great thing about me? I couldn’t have been more delighted to have been “gotten.”
I was the “Unknowing Dupe.”
And I had played my part brilliantly.
On Sunday, my daughter Anna will turn 28, which makes me considerably older. Despite the chilling reminder of my teetering mortality, I acknowledge this milestone, and I honor my miracle of a daughter, who continues to make me happy when skies are grape
Happy B-Day, A.B.P. I love you to pieces
"Dad"? Who else is writing this?"